


Be Still and Breathe

by pippen2112



Series: Go Back to Sleep Series [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Begging, Captivity, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dry Humping, Edging, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, Humiliation, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Obedience, Prostate Milking, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Fantasy, Verbal Humiliation, post s12, the first glimpses of plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: Wash gets "rewarded" for good behavior with a lap around the base.





	Be Still and Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inthrall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthrall/gifts).



> Please heed the tags. This series is very *very* heavy on non-con/rape. If I've missed a tag, please let me know.
> 
> Special thanks to inthrall for "submitting a formal request for more begging."

_...Arms ache… Legs ache…  Jaw aches… Every inch of him feels too hot… too tight… too close…_

_He whines through the gag.  Presses his face against the floor._ Just keep still, and you’ll be okay.  Be still and breathe. _He exhales, letting the ropes around him take his weight.  But the rough bonds dig into his skin.  “Fuck!” he shouts around the gag._

_His hips move reflexively.  He needs something to rub against.  Something firm and warm and breathing.  Eyes shut, he can imagine old friends standing over him, their words stronger than any ropes, holding him in place while they play.  Keening, he grinds down._

_Too rough.  Too much._ Not enough _.  His arms tense, and pressure cinches tight around his cock, cutting off his fun.  Tears fill his eyes._ Be still and breathe.  

 _A phantom hand threads through his hair.  A warm familiar chuckle.  Fingers teasing his scalp._ “Easy, boy.  You’re going down too fast.  You can’t keep this bottled up this long.”

_He can’t help himself.  He ruts against the ground, and the cycle starts again.  Too much pain, not enough pleasure.  But he can’t stop._

_...Floating… halfway between frustration and relief… moaning… crying… begging through the gag…_

_His pleas go unanswered._

#

Wash wakes milliseconds after they start the hoses.  Cold water stings every inch of him.  He twitches and curls in on himself.  Tries to find the empty, obedient part of his mind, the place he doesn’t have to fight.  

The spray lets up, and a few seconds later, Wash relaxes.  The rags of his under armor cling to his skin.  His heart throbs in his chest, spurred faster by pain and panic.  His stomach and groin are red and raw.  Too bright to be from the chilly wake up call alone.

Before he can grapple with his memory, someone across the cell snickers.  “Whore can’t get enough can he.”  One of the space pirates, Wash guesses.

“Desperate little cunt,” another sneers.

The hose starts up again, the blast catching him square in the balls.  Wash gasps, his vision whiting out.

When he comes back to himself, he’s soaked to the bone.  Hair plastered against his forehead.  Sore below the belt.  Dizzy and nauseous and shivering.  And alone.  Blessedly alone.  But for how long.

Fuck, what the fuck do the mercs have planned for today?

#

It could be ten minutes before the cell door opens.  It could be an hour.  Wash’s been cooped up for he doesn’t know how long; his internal clock is decidedly out of whack.  His toes feel like icicles.  His bones feel fragile as glass.  He shakes and shakes but it doesn’t stop the infernal chill.

At the sound of the cell door opening, Wash curls further into a ball, straining his shoulders to keep from cinching the tie around his dick and balls tighter.  Heavy footsteps behind him.  A scornful tut.  “Well, is that any way to greet us, Washy?”

 _Fuck!_  Wash exhales hard, pushing himself to move, move, _move!_ Gritting his teeth, he gets halfway into position before Felix crouches over him and smacks his ass.  Hard.

“Om,” Wash grunts through the gag.  

Felix grabs him by the hair, pulling his head back until Wash can only stare up at his visor.  “What else?”

Cheeks flushing, Wash makes an unintelligible grumble.  Felix tuts.  “No, no.  You’re not getting out of it that easy.  Say it right.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Wash enunciates as clear as he can through the gag.  “Ayhnk oo, hrr.”

Felix sets him down gently and scratches his scalp appreciatively.  “Good boy.  Nice and loud for me.”

He finishes the set with brutal efficiency, the kind Wash associates with Locus.  The pace leaves him sobbing.  Thank God the gag smothers the worst of his pleas.  After delivering the last swat, Felix sits against the wall and rests Wash’s head in his lap.  He runs his fingers through Wash’s hair, humming under his breath.  It takes everything for Wash not to push into every touch.  

“You’re usually better about the greeting,” Felix says calmly as he works the gag out of Wash’s mouth and feeds him a pill, one smaller than the norm.  “Didn’t like shower time?”

Wash goes rigid before a full body shiver rips through him.  Stupid sense memory of sharp, stinging cold.  He wishes he had the gag in.  While he’s still got his wits about him, Wash glowers and snaps, “Try waking up to a bucket of cold water and see how you like it.”

Felix laughs.  “Look who’s still got some fire left in him.”

Flushing, Wash ducks his head.  Fuck, what was he thinking?  But Felix doesn’t look upset.  Amused.  Excited.  But not precariously balanced on the edge of violence.  It’s such a relief Wash could nearly cry.  Instead, he takes the moment and lets himself rest.  

The drugs warm through him, but the haze around him isn’t quite as oppressive as normal.  Sure, a wave of arousal crashes over him, making him hyper aware of Felix’s armor digging into his cheek, the wet ropes digging into his skin, the cold, jagged stones against his hip.  He squirms forward just until his penis touches the wall.  His eyes roll back because shit, a wall shouldn’t feel so good.

“Uh-uh,” Felix says, dragging Wash away from the wall.  “Can’t go humping every flat surface, Washy.  You’re better trained than that.”

Wash bites his lip to stop himself from saying something snarky.  He whimpers, straining against his bonds, lets the sensation distract him.  The pinch of his skin, the rough, worn texture of ropes.  He bares his neck, pushing himself farther onto Felix’s lap with his limited range of motion.

“Well,” Felix says, slow and smooth, “when you put it like that, how’s a guy supposed to say no?”

A gloved hand wraps around his dick.  Eyes shooting open, Wash keens.  Felix chuckles, squeezes his fist tight.   _Too much, too much!_  Wash coils forward, hissing through the friction and the unforgiving kevlar grip against him.  Despite his helmet, Wash can feel Felix leering at him.  Soaking up his reaction and adjusting his hold accordingly.  

As quickly as it starts, Felix releases him.  “Breathe, Washy.  Can’t have you passing out in the middle of your reward.”

Wash sucks in a few breaths obediently before the words catch up to him.  He cranes up to look at Felix, his heart fluttering anxiously.  “Reward?”

“All in good time.  Be a good boy, now, and enjoy it while you can.”

Felix stares him down, not so much as twitching until Wash drops back onto his back, arms awkwardly pinned between his back and Felix’s thighs.  The rope around his balls tugs tighter.  He breathes shallowly, willing himself to stay not flinch.  

He hears something shuffling above him before warm, calloused hands spread across his hips.  His hips twitch upward, a soft, pleading sound slipping out before Wash can stop himself.  “Good boy,” Felix coos as he grabs Wash’s cock.  “Just relax.”

 _Yeah, ‘cuz that’s totally possible right now._  Felix pumps him just hard and fast but every time Wash strains up into the touch, he releases him, trailing his fingertips over Wash’s inflamed skin, teasing him.  So Wash closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe and lets the drugged-up haze creep closer around him.  He hates the heavy sensation in his limbs, but if it can keep him still and complicit with Felix’s orders, he’ll deal with it.  Right now, he can use every advantage he gets.

Felix keeps up the infernal too-much-not-enough pace until Wash can’t feel his arms under him, can’t tell if he’s floating or flying or still trapped in the dark little room, doesn’t care about anything except the hand pumping him closer and closer to the edge, the other hand putting subtle pressure on his lower abdomen, the third hand pushing his hair out of his face.  He can feel his balls pulling tighter, his cock twitching up and down, ready to burst.  His arms limp at his sides.

“Are you removing the under armor?”

“Not yet.  It’s a good look on him. Shows off his inner slut.”

_Wait, who is asking Felix questions?_

Only when he’s pulled upright and steady arms loop under his armpits does Wash realize there’s someone else in the cell.  Only when the ropes crisscrossing his chest loosen and steady hands rub across his skin does he realize they’ve untied him.  Stifling a moan, Wash tries to throw his weight forward, tries to get free, get up, get away.  Those arms hold him tighter, unyielding against his sloppy, drug-limp efforts.  

“Stop squirming,” Locus says in his ear, deep and rumbling.  Wash can’t stop the shiver creeping up his spine.  

And then something soft slides around his neck, soft and familiar and Wash’s eyes fly open.  Rope.  More rope.  And not just the rough, synthetic fibers he’s spent the last week or more wrapped up in.  The good stuff, soft and unyielding.  He’s only used it a few times in his life but not since--

Eyes prickling, Wash shakes his head and bows backward, stumbling for purchase but finding nothing except Locus’s chest against his back.  

“Stay still, Washington,” Locus commands.

_“Just stay still, Wash.  He’s gonna make you feel good, just stay still.”_

“No, no, please,” Wash mutters quick and quiet.  He squeezes his eyes shut.  Not those memories.  Not now.

A hand wraps around his balls, tugging hard.  Wash freezes, a cry of pain caught in his throat.  “C’mon Washy, you wanna be good, right?  You’ve been so good.  Don’t make us take away your reward by being bad.”

Wash shudders, sucking in air because it’s the only thing he can control.  His cheeks burn, but there’s something cool rolling down them.  He can’t open his eyes.  Can’t watch as the mercs overwrite another of his memories.  Hanging his head, Wash goes limp in Locus’s arms.  

Whistling cheerily, Felix makes quick work of the ropes, winding around his chest, arms, and groin, binding his limbs together with his arms folded behind his back.  Wash’s breath hitches in his chest at odd intervals as the ropes tease over his skin.  The position makes his chest stick out, his pecs and abs outlined in soft black rope.  What is the point of this? The other ropes were still sound, and the previous position had him hobbled.  So why the change?  What are they doing?

 _A harness_.  Wash flushes, his guts turning soupy at the realization.  They’ve tied him snug in a harness complete with rope looped around his dick and balls.  

“Fuck, you take ropes well,” Felix says idly.  He trails his thumb over Wash’s cockhead.  “You’re dripping,” he lifts his thumb to Wash’s mouth, smearing the precome on his lips, “and you can’t do a goddamn thing but take it.”

Wash bites his tongue to stop it from peeking out reflexively.  

“Eyes forward,” Locus says suddenly.

Snapping to attention, Wash looks up just in time to see the scrap of black fabric cover his eyes.  He recoils too late; by then the blindfold is knotted behind his head.  Wash thrashes, trying to dislodge it; instead, he loses his balance and falls back against Locus’s chest.  “What are you doing?  What’s happening?” Wash asks, his voice weak and wavering.  

“Don’t worry, it’s just your reward,” Felix says, sounding so smug Wash can picture him smirking.  “Figured some new ropes couldn’t hurt.  So just relax and enjoy it.”

“Enjoy what?” Wash asks.

But in lieu of an answer, the mercs push something else over his head.  It clamps down around his ears, putting pressure on his cranium and blotting out every sound but the rasp of his breathing and the thump-thump of his heart.  Wash shakes himself, but the contraption doesn’t so much as budge.  For a moment, gloved hands sooth his sides, but all too quickly, Locus steps away, and Wash is alone.  Tied up and trapped in his own head.

_Fuck!_

Wash widens his stance.  His knees wobble under him but hold.  How long has it been since he’s been able to stand?  Since he’s had this much freedom?  Wash tugs at his bonds. Tries to shake loose the earmuffs.  Bites his tongue to stop his moans and groans.  Without his eyes and ears, it feels like someone turned up his sensitivity.  If the ropes got him hot and bothered before, now it’s like every brush of rope against his skin strokes against his raw nerves.  

Stumbling forward, Wash finds a wall and presses his forehead against the cold flat surface.   _Be still and breathe,_ he reminds himself.   _Just keep breathing.  You’ve done this sort of stuff before.  You can get through this.  Just keep breathing._

He takes deep breaths, anchoring himself against the wall.  He’s here.  He’s lucid.  Whatever they throw at him, he can take.  

Just as his heart starts to slow its breakneck pace, something tugs him back by the harness.  Wash expects arms to wrap around him or grab him by the hair and push him into position.  No such luck.  He scrambles to find his feet, his momentum carrying him until his harness pulls tight around him, stopping him in his tracks.   _The fuck is this?_

The pressure doesn’t let up until Wash steps forward.  Small, cautious steps at first, but a sharp tug sends him staggering.  Step by step, the cold wet metal beneath his toes gives way to something else: still unyielding metal, but this time worn smooth in some places and still rough in others.  Wash feels vibrations radiating up from his toes and gasps.

 _This isn’t the cell._ He’s out of the cell and he can’t see a goddamn thing.  He jerks back, struggling once more to shake loose the earmuffs or the blindfold.  Before he can make progress, one of the mercs pinches his nipple.  Too hard to be anything but a reprimand.  Wash keens before he can stop himself, the sound muffled to his own ears, but it must be high and loud and so pathetic.  The hand--flesh and blood, not a gauntlet, probably Felix--slides down his chest, trailing over him so slowly, so teasingly.  

A chill runs up his spine.  Fuck, not only is he out of the cell, hobbled and blinded, but he’s also dressed in just ropes and the remains of his under armor.  He goes light-headed as his blood rushes _everywhere._  Full-bodied flush.  Fuck.  He ducks his head.

Another hand runs up his spine, all the way up into his hair.  Firm and just the wrong side of gentle.  Locus.  He scratches Wash’s head and pets him until the harness tugs again and Wash has to move.  But the message is clear.  He can either trust the mercs and follow their lead, or fight back and risk their wrath.  Head still bowed, Wash follows.  Better alive and ashamed than proud and dead.  How else is he supposed to get back to his team?

The mercs lead him around the base for what feels like an hour, but is probably closer to ten minutes.  At first, the pace is easy, and Wash is able to shuffle along, anticipating uneven floor or steps or anything to trip him up.  By the time the next wave of the drugs hits him, Wash has finally managed to get his bearings and keep up.  (He refuses to think of this as the mercs taking him on a walk, refuses to consider because that’s not what’s happening here, it’s _not._ )

And then the touching starts.

#

Moans, whines, and whimpers fill the base.  Below the frenzy, there’s also energy, more energy than the men have had in weeks.  Locus finds a corner of the rec room to watch the goings on.  To watch Felix parade their pet Freelancer around for the men’s amusement.  And given the litany of filthy sounds coming from Washington, all 279 of them are making the most of this opportunity.

Washington stumbles forward through the sea of soldiers.  Hands reach out left and right, gloved and bare, pinching, prodding, stroking every inch of skin they can reach.  Washington is lost in all the attention.  He lets loose all those sounds he normally bites back in the cell.  Begging for more.  For concentrated pleasure.  For someone to bend him over and make quick work of him.  The men know better.  They tease and jeer, but they know what will happen if they overstep.  The pair who took the liberty of hosing down Washington are now strung up outside his cell, alive but only just, serving as warning to the others.  Follow orders or face the consequences.

Once Felix gets bored leading Washington through the crowd, he hands off the lead and ambles over to Locus.  Rolling his neck, Felix nudges his shoulder.  “Told you they could use a pick me up.”

Locus glares but doesn’t flinch.  He never disagreed that the men could use a little incentive to fight harder, especially with the armies of Chorus rallying against them.  Yes, the natives are hardly a deadly fighting force, but they’ve proven more troublesome since the fight at the communications tower.  Since the simulation troopers complicated things.

“So long as they don’t damage him.  Control has been specific.  They want the Freelancers alive.”

Felix rolls his eyes, the motion translating up through his posture.  “Any chance Control’s sending us more reinforcements?  At this rate, it’ll just be you and me against this whole fuckin’ planet.”

“There is a ship leaving soon.  Prisoner transport.”

“Oh joy, a bunch of criminals we’ll have to whip into shape.  Not exactly the spec-ops we were hoping for.”

“The ship will be in shuttle range within the next two weeks.  They’ve send us tracking coordinates.”

A long cry cuts through the clamor.  “Fuck, please!”

Locus’s gaze snaps to the crowd.  One of the pirates, a soldier in gray and blue armor, has Washington pinned against the wall, legs hiked up over his hips, one hand braced around his throat.  But the sounds Washington makes at the rough treatment, the thready pleas for more, more, _more_ , are absolutely sinful.

But no one has permission to take such liberties with their prisoner.

Locus and Felix storm through the crowd, Felix stalks a half step ahead.  He gets to the gray and blue pirate first, drags him back from Washington as Locus hefts Washington up and over his shoulder.  Felix throws the pirate halfway across the rec room, drawing his combat knife as he advances.

Turning back toward the cell, Locus shakes his head.   _278._

#

 _Keep breathing,_ Wash reminds himself, but his chest is tight and he still feels so many hands on him.  The heat of bodies pressed in around him.  The powerful clench of pleasure in his gut when someone presses him against a wall and ruts against him.  Grinding into his hips in a way that can only be described as painful.  But Wash’s breath hitches at just the thought of all that armor while he’s naked.  Worse than naked.  And fuck, he wanted to behave, to keep walking like the mercs wanted, to get to the fucking reward, but it felt too good to stop.

When Wash gets dropped out of the fireman’s carry onto familiar flooring, he sighs in relief.  His cell.  It has to be.  Even if it’s cold and damp and uncomfortable, at least Wash knows what to expect here.  Unbidden, he crawls onto his knees, his chin tucked to his chest, breathing hard to catch up with himself.  Steady hands weave through his hair, and something small and bitter presses to his lips.  The pill.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Wash opens his mouth, lets Locus set the pill on his tongue, and swallows.

_Be still, breathe, and survive._

For a few minutes, Locus holds him by his hair, pressing Wash’s face to his thigh and soothing him into the haze.  It’s fucked up, worrying about a prisoner’s comfort, but Wash can’t help being thankful for it.  

 _And yeah, wanting comfort from your captor isn’t fucked up at all, is it?_  But the fog is creeping over him, and Wash only has so many fucks left to give.  Especially in this environment.  If he’s gonna survive, he has to make nice with the mercs; he’ll deal with everything else later. When he’s free.

After a few minutes, Locus kneads down from his hairline to the nape of his neck, working the muscles with just enough pressure to make him melt.  His mouth falls open, but he can’t hear any sounds he makes.  Hopefully he’s still quiet, but he can’t remember.  His throat aches, but that’s gotta be from not talking, right?  Maybe?  

With careful motions, Locus pushes Wash down until his face hits the floor panels.  He presses a cheek to the slick surface, reveling in the cold.  He feels Locus working with the harness, but he can’t make out exactly what’s happening.  Locus shifts him around, centering his knees under his hips and looping more ropes around his ankles.  Wash tests the bonds, but they hold.

Only when Locus spreads a hand across one of Wash’s ass cheeks does he realize exactly what position he’s been shoved into.  Face down.  Ass up.  His heart thunders against his ribs. _He’s gonna punish me._  Wash’s muscles tense, but he doesn’t have so much as an inch of leeway.  Fuck, it’s not even his fault he couldn’t keep walking, and he’s still gonna get the short end of the stick.  

But Locus doesn’t smack him, or mutter a deep command right up against the earmuff so Wash can hear him.  He just slowly traces idle patterns on Wash’s ass.  At least he’s twitchy and anticipating a blow, or he’d be giggling himself breathless.  But there’s no rhyme or reason to Locus’s attentions, only a faint tickling sensation and Wash’s stupid shallow breathing.

The floor reverberates under him.  Wash tenses, reflexively trying to push himself upright and put his back to the wall, but there’s no give in the ropes wrapped around his torso, tethering him to the floor.  His pulse pounds in his ears, too loud and overwhelming for Wash to focus on the vibrations and figure out what’s happening.  Locus doesn’t react, doesn’t stop drawing slow circles on Wash’s upraised cheeks.   _Must be Felix.  But wasn’t he already here?_  

Something cool and slick against his ass breaks Wash from that train of thought.  He hisses automatically, angling himself away from the cold, but it’s already sliding over his skin.  Nothing but gravity and time can save him from it.  The slick slides down his asscrack, skirting around his rim and trailing down toward his balls.  Wash lets out a breath until Locus catches the dollop with his fingers and drags it back up.  

Knowing hands angle his hips, and thick calloused fingers circle his rim.  With each pass, new nerves wake up, leaving him twitchy and drooling against the ground.  Wash bites his lip hard enough he tastes blood, but quiet groans still resonate in his throat.   _Be still and breathe.  Just hold on and survive._

Locus pushes into him slowly, achingly slowly, waiting inch by inch as his muscles relax and part.  And despite the slick sensation and the weightless flutter in his stomach, what gets Wash the most is the warmth.  How are Locus’s fingers so thick and warm?  It’s not right.  But once Locus’s fingers are seated all the way in, he curls them just right and Wash’s stomach jolts.   _Fuckin’ prostate!_  Wash shivers and tries to squirm away from the sensation.  It’s too much too fast, and within seconds, he’s on edge, his skin buzzing and his thighs twitching.

Wash tries his best to keep still, to breathe through assault on his prostate, but Locus is insistent and resilient.  Between his legs, his cock pulses erratically, eager for more attention than the ropes woven around it.  Wash reaches for it, straining against his bonds.  Fuck, he almost wishes he’d learned how to come untouched.  Instead he rolls his hips back as far as the tie allows, thrusting in time with Locus’s delicate little circles.

Before he realizes it, the pressure around his skull lets up, a chorus of moans and whimpers ringing through the room around him.  His hips stutter at the noise, but Locus hums, pressing into him more firmly.  “Oh fuck, again, please.  Please, do it, God!”

_Who’s talking?  It almost sounds like m--_

A harsh chuckle overhead cuts through the wet sounds of sex all around him.  “Told you you’d enjoy it, Wash.  Though, not gonna lie, you’re a lot more vocal than anyone could’ve guessed.”

Wash bites his lip and all those breathy little moans stop.  Fuck, those noises, those were him.  His cheeks burn.  For not the first time, he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him.  

“Oh, getting all self-conscious now that you hear yourself?  Begging like a desperate slut, huh?”

Eyes squeezed shut behind the blindfold, Wash tenses so hard he shakes.  No, not this again.  But unbidden, he feels warmth spreading through his body, centering in on his groin.  His insides twist and turn, and before Wash can make heads or tails of anything, he feels it: a flutter in his balls, and a twitch in his dick, and something warm eeking out of him.  

He can’t stop his moan.  What the fuck?  What is happening to him?  

“You hear that, Locus!  I think he likes it.”

Locus circles his prostate and something splats on the metal between his knees.  That should be it, but more keeps coming.  “Th-the fuck?” Wash chokes out.

“You’re leaking,” Felix whispers, breath hot against Wash’s ear.  “And trying to spread your legs wider.  What’s the matter?  Not full enough?”

Wash keens before he can stop himself.

“Ask nicely,” Locus commands, stilling his fingers just a millimeter from where Wash wants them most.

“Please,” the word comes out low and broken.  He must be red from his hairline to his toes, but he can’t stop now.  “Please, Locus.”

“Tell him what you want,” Felix prompts.

“Anything!  Just more.”

Felix laughs derisively.  “You heard the slut.  Give him what he wants.”

Without hesitation, another finger sinks into Wash, spreading him wide as they toy with his prostate.  It’s so good, and nowhere near what he needs.  Release without relief, without pleasure, but Wash still arches his back and begs for every inch they give him.  

By the time he stops leaking, Wash’s thighs are shaking, and his head is swimming.  His balls ache, and his dick is so hard Wash can’t think about anything but getting a hand around it.  He shivers, hands stroking through his sweaty hair as Locus unties him.  For a second, Wash tries to push himself all the way onto his stomach, tries to grind forward for just a millisecond of pressure.  That’s all he needs.  But Felix yanks him up by his hair, pulls Wash around and then pushes his face back down.  Right into the cooling puddle of his cum.  It smears across his nose and mouth, making him gag.  

Locus kneels down over him, pressing down on the opposite side of his head.  “Clean up your mess, Washington.”

Aching head to toe, drained in every sense of the word, and with no strength left to fight, Wash obeys.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, suggestions, and concrit welcome! I finally have a fairly structured outline for this series, but if anyone has any requests, please let me know.  
> Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.tumblr.com)


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